


On Land

by MrsMollyH



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Injury, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-09
Updated: 2012-05-09
Packaged: 2017-11-05 01:38:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/401033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsMollyH/pseuds/MrsMollyH
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barbossa makes Jack live out his greatest nightmare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Land

Jack swallowed another draught of rum, savoring the heaviness of the alcohol, the way his lungs burned as he breathed in, the spice of the liquid down his esophagus. Granted, he was working through his third bottle of the alcohol, but that, surely, didn’t make a difference to him.

He continued drinking, drinking until he felt that familiar lazy, hazy feeling. The rocking of The Pearl felt good, felt smooth, felt right beneath his sea-trained feet.

He dropped the bottle to the floor and passed out.

 

He awoke to an even surface beneath his back, and the sensation of his arms numb above his head. He looked up to find himself shackled to the wall. There was no rocking to this floor.

“Where in the Hell am I?” he shouted, looking about at the foreign walls. This was a place he did not know. Jack pulled his arms as hard as he could, attempting to free his slender wrists from the irons.

His mouth tasted bitter, nearly metallic—different from when he usually drank. A drug, perhaps? Something was off about all of this. 

A voice from behind him and to his left: “Yer belovedPearl is gone, mate. And you’re here with me—alone. No interruptions, no sea, no wind, no movement. No sea, no wenches, no liquor, nothing.” Jack knew the voice but couldn’t see the face.

Jack offered a feral sort of growl. “You bloody, conniving bastard—“

“Shut yer mouth, Jack. I like it much better when you don’t speak.”

Hector rounded the corner. “What d’ya think? I must say I rather enjoy having a. . . captive audience.”

Jack rolled his eyes and pulled again at the irons, hoping to free his wrists.

“’s no use, Jack. Your ever-diligent friend Elizabeth learned a bit of the craft from her husband, ye see. She’s working the smithy at night to make a bit o’ extra money.”

Jack released the tension in his wrists and looked Barbossa in the eye. “So, Hector, what do you have in store for me seeing as that I’m locked up to bloody Hell?”

“Jack, it seems you don't know me as well as ye think—I’m gonna leave you here, on land, with no ship and no key. You’re. . . land-locked, so to speak.”

Upon hearing this, Jack renewed his struggles against the irons, twisting and pulling and yanking—but keeping his lips sealed. He was not about to give Barbossa the pleasure he so wanted in knowing that it was not just the irons of which Jack was so afraid. Barbossa offered a hideous laugh and left him.

Jack worked against the iron, feeling it begin to rub his wrists raw. He knew eventually they would bleed—but perhaps that would allow him to free himself. Jack pulled his hands downward—hard—and gritted his teeth against the pain as the irons so slowly tore at his skin. There was blood—finally—and he worked his wrists in an attempt to free his hands and get away from here an back to his Pearl—but no, it wasn’t working. The irons were too tight and the blood wasn’t enough, and as he felt his body give up, he noticed the blood was dripping along his arm and staining his shirt. He felt hope slip silently away.


End file.
